


A Stitch in Time

by spikesgirl58



Series: Working Stiffs [4]
Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 06:24:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just who is Del Floria?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stitch in Time

You don’t know me and that’s a good thing.  Really, in my line of work, it’s really important that you don’t know me.  You may think you know me, but I can assure you that the person you see is not the one who puts on his jacket and heads out the door at night.

Most folks think of me as Del Floria, when in fact, there’s close to a dozen of us.  We are all about the same age, the same height, the same everything, but that’s where it ends.  You see, Del Floria’s tailor shop is a front for an intentional enforcement agency. It’s one of a handful of entrances and the one usually favored by the Section Two and Three agents.  Being a tailor shop, it has always been convenient, as UNCLE has only just recently started permitting women to join the ranks of Section Two and Three.

My real name is…well, you can call me Morty.  I used to be a field agent.  Those were good times.  Running around the globe, stamping out corruption, squashing evil coups; it was the best and worst of time, to paraphrase Dickens.  It was also a time of great physical danger, constant exhaustion, and more stress than a normal person could handle. That’s why we’re pulled from the field at age 40.  The Section One bigwigs figure we’re done our bit by then and offer us safer and saner jobs.  We finally get the chance at a normal existence, regular hours, and the opportunity to marry and have kids if we want.

Well, the lucky ones like me do.  Others, like my former partner, Louie, they aren’t so lucky.  They go out in a blaze of glory or quietly to a THRUSH bullet.  We’re just standing there talking about all the stuff we’d do coming out of the field and the next thing I know I’m wearing his brains all over my pants.  Still a day doesn’t go by that I don’t miss him.

Most folks who walk into my shop have no idea the maze of concrete and steel that hides behind the wall of my dressing rooms.  They come in for a hem, a press, maybe some cleaning.  We’re actually trained in tailoring when we’re accepted to the program.  We learn how to measure and sew, both by hand and with machines.  We learn how to crease a pair of pants properly, turn cuffs on a shirt and make a guy look like a million bucks.  And we’re saving the world, one inseam at a time.

I work a regular shift, usually eight to noon out front and then from one to six in the back, as we refer to HQ.  Believe it or not, the shop turns a nice profit, someone has to sew on those buttons, the non explosive ones, and press the suits of all those field agents. 

I was sitting at my machine when I feel a presence at my elbow.  Now, granted I’ve been out of the field for awhile, but old habit die hard.  Without even thinking, I slip my dressmaker shears, lethal things, onto my lap, concealing them easily beneath the shirt I’m altering. Then I look up into the grinning face of Napoleon Solo.

This guy cracks me up.  He’s always pulling stuff like this, keeping us on our toes, both as agents and as tailors.  Napoleon is rougher on clothes than anyone I know.  Not even that little Russian guy chews through a suit as fast as my boy Napoleon does.

“So, Morty, how’s it hanging?”  He claps me on the shoulder and easily removes the shirt to reveal the shears. You can’t put anything over on my boy, but I keep trying.

“Can’t complain, Napoleon…well I could, but nobody listens, not even the wife.”  I let him know that he’s won this time and that there are no hard feelings.  I see him and can’t help thinking about Louie, like he’s ever far from my thoughts.  Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife, but the bond I had with my partner was like my religion, it was in my very soul and then it was ripped out, gone.  They tried to make me feel better by telling me he didn’t suffer.  Of course he didn’t.  That was my fate.  It takes me a second to break that train of thought, but when I do, I’m smiling again, my mask back in place. “So what brings you down into the blue collar workers’ lair?”

“Ah, Morty, we have a bit of a problem that only you can help with.”  He straightened and was looking around the room, studying it carefully.  Always on the job, that’s my boy.

His admission is news to me.  I’m a tailor, most of the time, these days.  When the agents come in, I release the locking mechanism and let them pass. There’s the occasional attempted incursion by THRUSH, but other than that, I couldn’t think of anything I could do that would be of help to a strapping young buck like Napoleon. 

“I need you to turn me into a Del Floria.”  He looks straight into my eyes as he says this and I freeze.  He has that power to just stop men with the power of his gaze. 

“You want what?”

“We need to use Del Floria’s for a sting op and I need to become you for a few hours.  Now, Section Eight will deal with the make-up and all, but I need you to teach me to be a tailor.  A convincing tailor, too, Morty.  I need to be able to be able to pass myself off completely and without question.”

“And I’m going to become a rabbi tomorrow,” I mutter.  “Napoleon, I studied and trained for this position for nearly a year before I was allowed out front.  You can’t possible hope to learn it in…how long?”

“Two days, if we’re lucky.”

“ _Oy vey!_   You’re a crazy man.”

“That’s been mentioned to me more than once.”  Napoleon laughs and pounds my back.  I nearly lose my glasses.  “Can you do it, Morty?”

“I can try, Napoleon.  All right, sit down.”  I stand and he takes my place, smoothly, without hesitation, no complaining about not being ready or a prior engagement.  He knew I would agree even before I was asked.  That’s how a good Section Two operates and Napoleon, he’s the best.

I’ll grant you, Napoleon is a quick study.  I never have to say anything more than once…well, twice.  He did stumble on warp and weave, but that’s a small detail.  I’d never seen a man pick up things as quickly as he did, and always with a laugh and a self depreciation of his abilities.  Napoleon was a sponge and he’s determined to learn everything I can teach him.  We start with hand stitching and he learns how to hem pants, sew on a button and replace a broken zipper.  I teach him how to use the various pieces of equipment in our mock-up shop.  He learns how to treat different stains and to know when something can or can’t be saved and how to break it to the customer.  This guy is a natural actor. 

That was the easy part.  The next morning, we move on to the actual tailoring aspect of the job.  Within an hour, he had the various measurements down on the tailoring dummy.

“Of course, this is completely different when you’re measuring a real person,” I said as he triumphantly pulled an inseam measurement from the dummy’s leg.

“What do you mean?” He stands and dusts nonexistent dirt from his knees.

“Well, people don’t stand still.  They fidget and squirm, especially when you’re taking an inside leg.  Men don’t usually care to have other men in that proximity.  And they aren’t uniform.  One leg might be a bit longer than the other or their real waist and their preferred waist might not agree.”

“So, who do we have that I can measure?”  He slaps his hands together, obviously feeling up to the challenge.

“I’d suggest myself, but then I wouldn’t be able to advise you.  No, we need someone else.  Someone you’re comfortable enough with and who’s comfortable with you.  And it should be someone whose measurement we have on file so that we have something to compare them with.”

“I have just the person.”  Napoleon is fast, I’ll grant you that.  He’s over to the console within a minute.  “Illya, I’m down in Section Six, Room 414.  Could I see you for a minute?”

“Trouble?”  It’s amazing how much can be conveyed in just one word, but I could hear it all in Kuryakin’s voice, the concern, the questioning, the doubt, it was all there.  But that’s how it is with your partner.  He’s so tuned in to you that you don’t need to talk.  I miss that connection. 

“No, not really, I just need your help for a moment.”

“I’m on my way.”

“He’ll let you do this?” I ask a bit doubtful.  Kuryakin is not shy, not by any means, but he’s also not exceedingly outgoing or still.  He’s constantly in motion, that one.  Once a year, usually on Waverly’s orders, he’ll quiet down long enough for us to get a measurement or two.  Granted, only his waist has really changed in the years with UNCLE and very little at that.  He’s thin, but more solid than when he came to us.  Of course, then he was just on this side of being a boy and now he’s a man.

For a moment, it looks like Solo’s going to hand me a line and then he nods, seriously.  “Yes, he will.  He knows how much we have riding on this.”

The Russian is the complete opposite of his partner.  I don’t know that I’ve exchanged more than a dozen words with him since taking my post out front.  He’s always business like, bordering on brusque.  He never slows down to engage in idle chit chat or just to pass the time.  He’s always in a hurry, just like he is now.

He rushes into the room, expecting...something.  He doesn’t expect Napoleon’s grin and point.  “Illya, get up on the podium for me.”

“Excuse me?”

“I need to measure you.”

“Napoleon, I was right in the middle of a very important experiment,” he protests even as he toes off his shoes and starts to step up.

“I’m sure Shelly will forgive you this time.”  There’s an exchange of glances that Shakespeare could get at least two plays, a comedy and a tragedy, out of. 

“Um, Mr. Solo,” I interrupt.  I’m not sure why I suddenly feel the need to become more formal.  The Russian has that effect on people.  “It would be easier and your measurement more correct if he wasn’t fully clothed.”

“What?”  Napoleon suddenly faces me and Kuryakin doesn’t even bother to argue.  He knows the routine.  He’s pulling off his jacket and unbuckling his holster, passing them over to me as we speak.  Out of habit, I shake the jacket and hang it up, making sure the shoulders hang right.  It’s time for a new suit for him.  The elbows of the jacket are starting to get shiny, but he’ll never mention it.  I blame his peasant upbringing.  He’s even more conservative with his money than I am.

“To get the right measurements, it’s better to not do it through clothes.”  I think my ‘comfortable’ comment was starting to register with him now.”Surely you’ve been measured for suits before, Mr. Solo?”

“It’s been awhile.  My measurements don’t change very much.”  He seems a bit apprehensive as Kuryakin starts unfastening his pants and lets them fall.  He steps out of them and that’s when I become aware of this sly smile on the Russian’s lips.  I have no doubt Solo is in for the challenge of a lifetime, but just in case.  Many partners know the touch of each other and find it to be something relaxing, calming.  I don’t want to take a chance that Kuryakin will hold still for this.

I hand the pants to Solo and hook a finger at Kuryakin the minute Solo’s back is turned.  He bends over and I whisper, “Don’t make this easy on him.”  Again, that sly smile and a nod.  He’s back upright before Napoleon turns.

“How long is this going to take, Oh Great Tailor?” He stands there, unconcerned, naked except for his shorts and socks.

“Why?  You have an appointment?”

“It’s chilly in here.”  He draws in a breath as Napoleon clamps a very cold hand on his leg and Kuryakin says something not so nice in mixed company and Napoleon laughs.  These two have a magic between them that I envy and I miss so much.

Slowly I take Napoleon through the steps and Kuryakin provides a fair handful.  It takes three tries before Kuryakin’s measurements on file agree with the measurements Napoleon’s taking.  On the upside, he learns to weld that tape efficiently and with confidence.

“Watch where you’re putting that tape measure, Napoleon,” Illya snaps when Napoleon’s focus drifts a bit.  There’s another exchange of glances that only partners can share, some hidden joke between them.  Suddenly I miss Louis so very much.  Damned THRUSH took him out at two hundred yards.  We didn’t even know he was there.  I left the field the next day and Waverly understood.  Never asked me for a further explanation or additional reasons.  He just patted my arm, gave him his assurance that Louie would be well remembered.  And I knew I was going to go home and love my wife twice as much tonight, just so that I would forget him for a little while. 

 

 I walk into the tailor shop on the next morning and glance over at the man behind the counter.  I nod to one of my half dozen replacements and then freeze at the twinkle I see in those eyes.

“Napoleon?”  Section Eight has done a marvelous job of making him up.  Not even his mother would recognize him now. 

He grins at me, breaking character for just a minute.

“ _A glick ahf dir_ ,” I mutter, nodding.  That’s Yiddish for good luck.  “Be careful, my friend.”

“Um, yes, of course. You want in or what?” Even his voice is different, older, and raspier.  The bells over the door rings and out of the corner of my eye, I see Kuryakin entering.  I turn my back, keeping my face from view and Kuryakin glances over at the counter.

He raises a hand a little wearily; obviously he had a big night out, and starts towards the dressing booth.  “Morning, Napoleon, did you sleep well?”  He didn’t even need a second look to know it was his partner.

Napoleon shakes his head, a bit disappointed that he didn’t put one over on Kuryakin, but this is the man who knows Napoleon better than he knows himself, as all partners should.  Kuryakin disappears into HQ and I turn back.

“It will be fine, Napoleon. Regular people, they won’t know.”

I watch on the monitoring equipment from the back room as Napoleon is put through his paces, both as a tailor and as a front man. He’s good, very good, considering all the training he got.  One would never know him from some of my other colleagues.

I see him stiffen as a man enters.  He’s a _Dibbuk_ , the devil in human form.  You can see it in his eyes, they’re cold and dead and evil.  I know Kuryakin is just on the other side of the door in Reception, monitoring, but I suddenly wish he was with me.  This guy is trouble.  Instinctively, I reach for my gun to cover Napoleon’s back, but I no longer carry one. 

“Let me in.” The Devil nods to the curtain.

“Whadda want?” Napoleon’s accent is perfect, his confusion exactly right.  “I don’t sell suits here, I alter, I clean, I press, you want I should do that for you, you tell me.”

He pulls a gun and Napoleon blanches in fear, cringing.  “I want in now.”

“In where?  You want the dressing room, go into the dressing room _. Che un idiota! Sua madre dovrebbe averlo annegato alla nascita!”_  I do a fast translation in my head.  ‘What an idiot, his mother should have drowned him at birth!’  I couldn’t agree more.  Napoleon is mumbling and fiddling around with stuff as this _Dibbuk_ dashes into the fitting room.  I can hear him pound on the wall in frustration as it doesn’t move.

The Devil, he’s back out a second later, waving his gun and screaming red faced.  “You open the door now!  You open and let me in or I kill you!”  He levels the gun at Napoleon’s face. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.  This is a tailor shop, nothing more.”

“This is a front for UNCLE, let me in or I kill you and wait for them to collect the body.”  This man, he’s not joking, you can always tell.  Suddenly, I can stand it no longer.  Napoleon will let this _mishuggenah_ shoot him just so they catch him in some sort of carefully engineered trap.   Not on my watch.  Once an UNCLE agent, always an UNCLE agent.

I rip back the curtain and scream “No!”  It’s hard to say who’s more surprised, the Devil or Napoleon.  Looking back upon it, I probably should have just waited.  After all, Napoleon didn’t have a gun, but the _Dibbuk_ , he was packing and he’d have killed any agent who came through the door or out of the booth. 

Napoleon tosses the Devil’s gun hand into the air, but not before I earn a shoulder full of lead. It feels strangely familiar and a little reassuring.  I wonder what my Bubby would say if she could see me.  No, better that she shouldn’t. It wouldn’t be pleasant. 

Suddenly I’m on the floor, with Napoleon draped protectively over me.  There’s gunfire, the soft cough of a silenced P-38, and then it’s over.  The _Dibbuk_ is on the floor beside me, out for the count, as I will shortly be.

Kuryakin is on his knees beside me, his hands moving to check my shoulder.  They’re big, strong hands, but exceedingly gentle as he moves asides cloth.  “What happened, Napoleon?”

I wait for Napoleon to spit out how I destroyed the sting, ruined their carefully-conceived plans, but instead he smiles at me, holding me still as his partner’s touch brings pain.  “Nothing much.  He just saved my life, that’s all.”

                                                                                                *****

I get one more scar to add to my myriad of scars and a commendation from Waverly, but it all seems hollow to me.  I don’t miss the excitement or the danger.  I miss my partner and in a blinding moment of panic, I knew I didn’t want Kuryakin to go through that same kind of hell.  Napoleon understands, although I’m not sure about the Russian. 

I watch them come in, talking, laughing, arguing with each other, and envy them their friendship, their camaraderie, their closeness.  Kuryakin always stops to chat with me now, always asks how I am and if everything is fine.  Not fine.  Louie’s gone.  Life will never again be fine, but for now, it’s at least tolerable.

 

 

 


End file.
